


Safe as Possible

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Porthos, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: The first time Aramis looks after Porthos when he's hurt. Athos also helps out. Sort of.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhesascoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhesascoffee/gifts).



> WARNINGS: injury, concussion, hunger in past talked about,

They say that once you’re a Spanish prisoner, there is no escape. They keep you tightly under lock and key. The things they do to the French, according to rumour, are many, varied, and terrible. When captain Audebert Rouzee is caught out of uniform across the border, the musketeers shake their heads and mourn one of their own. Captain Treville, though, doesn’t give up so easily, and traces Rouzee’s position and probable place of imprisonment, and calls six musketeers to his office. Gerard Pelletier, Nicholas Bouraine, Charles Gaillard, George Falaize, Jean Basot, and Porthos du Vallon. Pelletier and Gaillard are the biggest men in the regiment, Bouraine is a strategic thinker, Falaize can get into any small space, and Basot is skilled with both blade and shot. Porthos is called on ostensibly because of his strength and skill at hand to hand and close combat, but really Treville calls him because he’s popular and keeps the men happy, he’ll pull them together and keep them on mission, and he won’t come back without their man. Unless he comes back dead.

“Unless he comes back dead?! Captain! How could you!” Aramis cries, on being told Treville’s reasoning for sending Porthos off without either him or Athos to watch his back.

Treville regrets not just saying ‘because he’s big’ when Aramis had asked. Aramis looks a little angry. Athos, stood silent at his shoulder, is too drunk to be anything but stoic. Treville looks at him and Athos sways forwards.

“If he comes back dead,” Athos says, enunciating carefully, “we will be very angry.”

He steps back with a firm nod. Treville watches for a moment, but that’s all Athos has to say. Aramis has a lot more to say, Treville can tell, but he’s not in the mood to hear it, so he dismisses them. When his men return with Rouzee he feels vindicated, but so do Athos and Aramis; Rozee rides in front of Pelletier, but Porthos is borne on a wagon drawn by two horses, between Basot and Falaize, lying prone. His face and neck are caked in blood, and the skin across his left eye is split, still oozing blood. There are scratches on his neck and cheek, and he’s dirty.

“He held up a collapsing wall,” Rouzee explains, raising exhausted eyes to Athos’s blazing ones. “Saved our lives. The whole tunnel came down on top of us, we’d have been buried, but he got under a great beam and took it on his shoulders. The ceiling fell on him. We thought he was dead, but when we got him out, he was still breathing.”

“I want all of you to go to the sick room, I’ll have the physician look you over,” Treville says. “I’ll come get a report from you later, Captain Rouzee.”

Rouzee might be captain, but he isn't currently commissioned, and as he’s serving in Treville’s regiment, Treville can order him to rest. Rouzee looks away, stubbornness making no appearance. The men disband and Porthos is carried away, Aramis trailing after him. Athos stays in the yard, holding Porthos’s horse, stroking her nose, clucking at her, glaring at Treville.

~

“I’m bloody well fine, stop that!” Porthos roars, pulling his head out of Aramis’s hold and tugging away from the cloth again.

“Shh, stay still,” Aramis murmurs. “We’ve got to get this cleaned up.”

Porthos snatches the cloth and scrub at his eye and neck, his face, over his forehead. The blood comes away, but his hands start to shake. Aramis tries to take the cloth again and do it, but Porthos swings at him. Aramis hasn’t seen him hurt before, not really. Unless you count a scratch to his arm, or various bruises from brawling in the taverns, or the time a red guard stamped on his foot with a heeled boot and broke a toe. He isn’t surprised by the stubborn belligerence, though. He is surprised at how lucid and mobile Porthos is, from being barely conscious a few moments earlier.

“Good enough?” Porthos asks.

“Yes, alright,” Aramis soothes, out of arm’s reach, taking the cloth. “That’s better.”

Porthos’s face is swollen, his left eye most, completely swollen shut. There’s a livid red mark across, cutting into the eyelid, deep enough Aramis worries for his eye. There’s bruising all about his forehead and temple, and a gash along his hairline, down to his ear. He looks terrible. He cheek is swollen, too, and his lip, and his good eye is bruised half shut. Aramis is still gazing at him when the physician bustles over to examine him. Porthos head-butts him and makes a strange low grumbling sound, then passes out.

Aramis goes out of the room, standing outside in the hall and covering his mouth to try and keep from laughing, or possibly crying. Athos finds him there and raises a sarcastic, questioning eyebrow that says both 'I care not, but tell me anyway’ and 'tell me now is he dead’.

“He’s fine,” Aramis says, waving it away. A laugh sneaks out and he claps a hand over his mouth.

“Are you having hysterics?” Athos asks.

“No,” Aramis says. “He head-butted the physician.”

A slow, pleased smile spreads over Athos’s face. He nods, content with that assurance. He pokes his head into the sick room, then goes on his unsteady way, probably after more wine. He spends most of his time drunk, these days. Some times of year seem better than others, and this time seems the worst of all of them. Aramis and Porthos have a silent agreement to let him be, but have started a carefully subtle campaign. It is a cheer up Athos campaign, and a get Athos to be friends with them campaign, and a make sure Athos knows we love him campaign. It seems to be working. It’s not having much effect on the drinking, however. Aramis gets hold of himself and goes back to Porthos’s bed, where the physician is finishing a line of neat stitches in the cut across Porthos’s eye. There are two stitches in the gash on his forehead already, over the deepest bit.

“He’s had a hard knock,” The physician says briskly. “I have done what I can, but in such cases one never knows. He needs to rest, for at least two weeks.”

“Two _weeks_?” Aramis exclaims in dismay. “I have trouble keeping him in bed two hours to recover from things!”

“You had better enlist some aid, in that case,” the physician snaps. “Two weeks bed rest, and then at least three more off duty. After that perhaps… though, this is all only if he survives. If he wakes.”

“What?” Aramis whispers. “What?”

“With heads, who knows?” The physician says with a shrug.

Aramis is half inclined to think he’s getting his revenge in for the head-butt. The physician leaves, and Aramis sinks to his knees by Porthos’s bed, taking the big man’s hand. He hasn’t known Porthos that long, really. Just over a year. Somehow he’s the most important person in Aramis’s life already, though. If he survives, the physician said, so casually. As if it didn’t matter one way or the other. Aramis presses his forehead to Porthos’s knuckles. Maybe medicine cannot weight the outcome one way or another, but Aramis knows a power greater than any physician. He draws his crucifix from his clothing and presses a kiss first to it, then to Porthos’s hand, then he sets about his prayers in a methodical, thorough way that will cover every possibility.

~

Aramis goes hoarse, that first night. Porthos wakes mid-morning the next day and calls Aramis a fool for not resting. He also turns on his side and vomits, narrowly missing Aramis. The physician is called back, but just shrugs and says it is expected, and to give Porthos ginger and an expensive tea. Aramis takes a sniff of the tea, identifies peppermint and chamomile, then gives it back and refuses to pay. Instead he begs some peppermint tea off Serge and adds a generous amount of honey, which Porthos manages a few sips of. Serge also offers a piece of ginger root for Porthos to chew on, which seems to help.

Athos lurches in at lunch time, takes one look at Porthos’s pain-pinched face and hears his heavy breathing, and balks. Then he straightens his shoulders and comes wavering over, perching unsteadily on the edge of the bed. Porthos groans, but squints open his good eye in greeting. Athos tuts quietly and tugs the scarf from around his neck, nudging until Porthos lifts his head, tying it around Porthos’s eyes. Porthos hums, pleased, and lies back, the tightness in him giving just a little.

“He should have a patch on that eye anyway,” Athos says.

“It’s bandaged,” Aramis points out.

Athos just tuts again, pats Porthos’s cheek (getting a hiss of pain for that- there’s a deep scratch on Porthos’s cheek) and then lumbers out again.

“He’s drunk,” Porthos whispers.

“Yes,” Aramis says, sighing. “Does the scarf help?”

“Darker,” Porthos mutters. “Aches.”

“Go to sleep, then,” Aramis says, stretching then settling himself more comfortably. “I’ll sit with you for a bit, then go fish Athos out.”

Porthos gives a slight movement that might be a nod. There’s silence for a while, the only sound Porthos’s pained breathing, Rouzee laughing softly with his wife further down, Gaillard trying to explain to Basot why he doesn’t need a stitch in his forearm where Basot managed to slice him this morning sparring. Then the outraged yelp that suggests Basot has put that stitch in anyway, and then quiet complaints and Basot’s amused, accented soothing. He’s a little man from Dauphiné, Gaillard’s inverse- they look comical together, their height difference only accented by the broadness of Gaillard’s shoulders, the paleness of his skin, the dirty blond of his long hair. Aramis watches them for a bit, and when he turns back Porthos is sleeping. Aramis gets up and goes to look for Athos.

 

~

Aramis and Athos take Porthos to his own rooms later in the afternoon. The sickroom is fine, but it does seem that wounds infect there more than at home. Porthos’s rooms, familiar to Aramis by now, are small and cramped, just a bedroom and a small outer room with a table. They’re bare, Porthos’s possessions fitting onto a single shelf above the bed. His clothes are limited to what he has on, really, except a spare shirt and single set of underthings. He doesn’t even have extra blankets. Athos goes to get his own extra blanket and Aramis’s extra blanket. Porthos lies on his back on the bed, arm across his eyes. He hasn’t spoken much since waking up again, and seems to be in pain when Aramis or Athos speak.

“Have some water,” Aramis whispers, fetching a cup from the outer room and pouring from the jug he set there earlier, in preparation.

Porthos turns his face away, though. Aramis sets the mug on the floor and kneels wrapping his hand around Porthos’s forearm and waiting for him to turn toward Aramis, moving slowly. He keeps both eyes shut, his bruised face pale beneath bandages and swelling. Aramis bites his lip to keep from doing something like stroking Porthos’s cheek. Porthos is happy to tussle, to wrestle, to roll around with Aramis. He’s even physically affectionate in an over enthusiastic way. He’s not tender, though, and hasn’t even been open to tenderness. Besides, from Aramis’s experience, any small hurt or illness makes Porthos belligerent, which means it’s better to stay out of Porthos’s reach and leave him alone as much as possible unless you want to get hit.

“Head-butting that doctor probably didn’t help matters,” Aramis says, laughing quietly, his affection coming out in his speech instead of gesture. Teasing Porthos is familiar and Aramis hears his voice go warm, unable to keep from it.

“Bloody nuisance,” Porthos whispers, voice a bare thread.

Aramis smiles, and does stroke Porthos’s cheek, without thought. He freezes, knuckles resting gently over the bruising. Porthos, astoundingly, stays still and quiet. Aramis opens his hand, laying his fingers gently, tips in Porthos’s hair, and Porthos shifts a tiny bit into the caress. Aramis rubs his thumb very carefully under Porthos’s hurt eye, away from the cut, breath held. Then Athos comes back with his arms full of blankets, half buried under them, and Porthos swings an arm, the back of his hand connecting with Aramis’s face.

“Who’s ‘at?” Porthos growls, trying to sit up.

“Athos,” Athos says. “Obviously. Lie down.”

Porthos doesn’t so much lie down as sink back into the bed, shuddering, arms curling around his stomach, turning heavily onto his side. Aramis sighs and getting up, rubbing his cheek. He divests Athos of his blankets and Athos makes him hold them while he spread them one by one over Porthos, smoothing them down, hands certain over Porthos’s body. He ducks the first swing of Porthos’s fist and Porthos is complaisant enough afterwards. Either that or Athos has tucked the blankets in to pin his arms. Usually Porthos would be able to just tug free, but he is injured. Aramis tries not to laugh at either of his friends, but Athos’s irritable solicitude borders on sweet, an adjective Aramis understands is associated with Athos but is usually buried very deep. And Porthos always amuses Aramis, in a happy, affectionate way.

“Are you done?” Aramis asks, when the blankets are all tucked around Porthos. “He’s going to be baking in there. Where did you even get so many blankets?”

“You had three,” Athos says.

“Shh,” Porthos hisses, trying to press his face into his thin pillow but obviously that hurts, he moans in pain and curls tighter around himself.

Athos and Aramis quiet guiltily and both kneel by the bed, trying to help Porthos get comfortable. Porthos endures it for a bit, then tells them both to piss off. They wander out to the courtyard, at a bit of a loose end. Treville sets them sparring and then it’s dinner, and another day is gone. Aramis sits with Athos in Athos’s rooms while Athos gets drunk, but Athos goes to bed before he gets more than tipsy, so Aramis withdraws also, after checking Porthos is resting. He falls asleep easily, after not sleeping last night.

He wakes to the sensation of being watched. He sits up, and there’s a crash and a confused curse, and mumbling. Aramis leans over to light a candle he left by his bed a few nights ago, and looks up. Porthos is there, blinking at Aramis’s table. Aramis’s rooms are bigger than Porthos’s, and he has a table and chairs as well as his bed in his room. Aramis gets up, and sees the pieces of the water jug around Porthos. Porthos looks up at Aramis with his one eye.

“I’m wet,” he says.

“Water will do that,” Aramis says. “I’m going to take your arm.”

Aramis holds Porthos by the elbow and guides him away from sharp edge. He’s in his stockings, his underclothes, and that’s it. His chest is bare, a crucifix and a coin hanging by a leather string. Aramis puts Porthos on the bed then picks up the pieces of jug and mops the floor with an old shirt that’s lying there. Porthos sits the entire time, staring at the candle, mouth open. Aramis crouches and touches Porthos’s knee to get his attention. He turns to Aramis. It’s hard to read his expression beneath the swelling and bandages.

“Did you need me?” Aramis asks, searching Porthos’s face.

“No,” Porthos says, then frowns. “M’eye hurts.”

“Yeah,” Aramis says. “Shall I check it?”

“No,” Porthos says. “Um, my head hurts, too.”

“You had a tunnel fall on top of you.”

“I don’t remember that. I’m cut,” Porthos says, touching his neck, his cheek, his bandages.

“Yes,” Aramis says.

Aramis doesn’t know what Porthos wants. He’s better at first aid than many of the musketeers, who learn the basics but tend to get bored after that. Aramis had been interested, so he’s learnt a lot more. But Porthos doesn’t seem to want help, and he’s seen the physician. He looks like he’s in pain, but not more than last Aramis saw him.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?” Aramis suggests.

“No,” Porthos says, smiling. “What if I was? What’d the cure for that be?”

“I can think of a couple of herbs that might make a good tea to help,” Aramis says. “Would you like me to?”

“No,” Porthos says.

“Well what is it you do want?” Aramis asks, losing patience.

Porthos shrugs, the beginnings of belligerence taking over from the smile. He clearly wants Aramis to read his mind. Aramis sighs and Porthos lies down, tucking his knees up, looking miserable. Aramis covers him, and when his hand lands on Porthos’s shoulder, Porthos leans into it, face relaxing a tiny bit. Aramis pulls his hand away, and Porthos’s face tightens again. Aramis stares, then reaches out tentatively, resting his hand against Porthos’s arm, ready to draw back if it should be unwanted. It seems, though, that it is wanted. Aramis, more confident, rubs over Porthos’s shoulder, and Porthos breathes out long and slow.

“Let me get you another of your blankets,” Aramis says, softly. “I’ll be back, okay?”

“Fine,” Porthos says.

Aramis hurries to Porthos’s rooms and grabs an armful of Athos’s blanket collection, taking them back to Porthos, who’s got his eye open, waiting. Aramis tucks two of the blankets around Porthos, then sits carefully on the edge of the bed. He’s wondering what to do next when Porthos makes a choked off sound and Aramis is tugged down. He yelps, but he’s pulled tight against Porthos’s chest, and it’s smothered. Aramis huffs a startled laugh, and wraps his arms around his friend.

“Okay,” he says. “This is new, but okay.”

“Tired,” Porthos says, and Aramis can hear the stubbornness.

“Not talking about it,” Aramis says. “Okay. Can I get a blanket?”

“No,” Porthos says.

He tucks Aramis under his own pile of blankets, and Aramis is held against Porthos’s naked chest, his crucifix and coin pressing into Aramis’s cheek, his chin against the top of Aramis’s head. It’s not a particularly gentle hug, but it’s not rough either. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Aramis shrugs internally, and snuggles closer. He’s happy to sleep with other bodies, it’s always seemed as if Porthos isn’t. Clearly that had been a mistake on Aramis’s part, though. Judging from the way Porthos melts into Aramis, Porthos has been wanting this. Aramis rubs slow circles over Porthos’s back until they both fall asleep.

“I was looking for you,” Athos says, waking Aramis.

“You’re drunk,” Porthos whispers. “Go back to bed.”

“You weren’t in your bed,” Athos says.

“Go back to bed, Athos,” Porthos says.

Aramis keeps his eyes shut. He’s still held against Porthos’s chest. Athos grumbles something, then the bed sinks, and Porthos is shoved closer to Aramis. Athos, Aramis realises, has jammed himself in behind Porthos. Aramis laughs, hanging half off the bed. Porthos holds him to keep him on, and doesn’t complain. Athos huffs out an irritated breath, then starts to snore.

“He stinks,” Porthos mutters.

“He was sober last night,” Aramis says, sobering himself. He manages to peer over Porthos’s shoulder, at Athos’s messy hair, his hands held in front of him against Porthos’s back, arms bent, fists clenched. “Do you think we should… ask him?”

“No. I think we should leave him be,” Porthos says. “I also think it’s breakfast time.”

“Do you. And does that mean you want me to get up and find you food? I would offer you a drink of water, but you broke the jug when you came bumbling in here last night.”

Porthos prods Aramis, which is a definite yes. Aramis goes, stretching and pulling on his clothes and boots. He looks back, from the door. Porthos looks exhausted and pale, and Athos looks miserable. Aramis heads out feeling worried about both his friends. Serge is enthusiastic on hearing that Porthos is finally hungry, and piles a tray with everything he can find that he knows Porthos might like, as well as providing wine and another jug of water. Aramis needs help carrying it all back, which Serge provides happily, chattering all the way and fussing about the table in the outer room until he has everything laid out nicely. Then he stops, and gives Aramis a sheepish look.

“He looked like he needed feeding, first time he walked in here. He’s a good soldier, too,” Serge says. “Hasn’t got many people, or didn’t used to.”

Aramis smiles at Serge’s defence of his mothering, and Serge scowls at him and stomps out, shutting the door after himself with a snap. Aramis gives a little giggling laugh, and puts some of the food onto a plate. Porthos is asleep when he steps back into the bedroom, though, and Athos is gone. Aramis leaves the plate on the same table, replaces the water jug, and helps himself to breakfast before opening his bible and looking for a verse or to to distract himself from the boredom of waiting. Treville has given him leave for a few days, knowing he and Porthos are close and Porthos still needs some help, and he has nothing to do. The bible, though familiar, is comforting and he soon finds himself lost in its poetry, his heart full for his God, the soft feeling of being always loved permeating him. He’s reading Luke when he hears a grunt, and then a cough, and then a choked sound that might be a sob.

 

He gets up and hurries through, but Porthos isn’t crying, he’s still mostly asleep and he’s vomited. He moans when Aramis shifts him to clean up, and Aramis feels his cheek and back of his neck, worried. He’s clammy, but not feverish. Aramis pats his cheek gently, trying to wake him. Porthos moans again, and shudders, vomiting weakly. Aramis gets a bowl from the table which held nuts, and clears up again, keeping the bowl handy. He sits on the edge of the bed and tries waking Porthos again, holding his shoulder. Porthos huffs and gets a hand to Aramis’s thigh, pushing.

“Wake up for me a sec,” Aramis whispers.

“St’p,” Porthos slurs. “Hur’s.”

“Hmm?”

“Head,” Porthos whispers, pushing more insistently at Aramis’s thigh.

Aramis pulls his hands away from Porthos, realising Porthos hasn’t been asleep, and Aramis’s attempts to wake him have hurt him instead. Porthos’s hand goes limp against Aramis’s thigh, his mouth falling open. Aramis gets up and hesitates, then makes a dash for the sickroom, begging supplies for willow bark and some ginger. Both are bitter, but he makes a tea from both and adds honey from Serge, who glowers at him but provides him with hot water and a small pot of honey. Porthos doesn’t react when he re-enters the bedroom, but he reacts when the tea touches his lips. He pulls back with a groan, and Aramis ducks in time for the weak punch to miss.

“It will help the pain and sickness,” Aramis whispers.

He tries again, and Porthos sips this time. He’s been sick again, so once he’s taken half the tea Aramis cleans him and the bed up again, stripping the sheet and replacing it with a blanket. Porthos sweats and moans whenever he’s moved, but he settles more comfortably afterward. Aramis touches his cheek, but that makes him moan too, so he gets up and puts a blanket over the window, then goes back to his bible, shutting the door. He checks on Porthos every twenty minutes or so, making sure the bowl is near him and he’s not been sick on himself again. Porthos seems to rest though, until the afternoon when he asks quietly for more tea. Aramis makes it willingly, and he drinks the whole cup this time.

“Does it help?” Aramis whispers.

“Yeh,” Porthos breathes, barely audible. “Dark too.”

Aramis looks around for a scarf and wraps that around Porthos’s eyes, remembering it helping before, and then leaves him. When he comes back Porthos asks him to stay, so Aramis gets his bible and sits on the floor. He can hardly make out the words in the dim light, so he turns to the well loved passages, the ones he knows by heart. When he exhausts those, he kneels to pray for a while. Porthos falls into a deeper sleep, and Aramis gets up, going back out to get himself something to eat. He finds Athos passed out on the floor in the corner. He sighs, gets a blanket and tucks it around Athos, then goes to sleep in Porthos’s room.

~

Porthos’s head throbbed. Continually. It didn’t let up for days, and he could barely breathe with it something, the pain swelling until he couldn’t help weeping. He stayed on his own when it was worst, pushing Aramis away, unable to bear him being close or any noise or any light that came with the opening of the door. Sometimes Aramis would come anyway, without speaking, moving carefully, and force Porthos to drink something bitter and unpleasant. Sometimes it just made him sick, but sometimes it helped.

But then it lessened again. He wakes up suddenly, and sees Athos swaying in the doorway. Aramis appears and pulls at Athos, silent, trying to remove him. Porthos turns a little and Aramis notices his open eye, and freezes. Porthos sits up, then wishes he hadn’t. The unbearable headache is less, but it still hurts, and his eye hurts, and his shoulders ache, and his stomach is not in any way happy. He focuses on keeping himself from being sick, and misses Aramis moving across the room until he’s crouched, not touching but close. He looks questioning, but he doesn’t speak, or touch. Porthos had thought he’d fixed that particular problem. He’d got a hug, afterall.

“Do you want some wine?” Athos says, loudly, coming over to sit next to Porthos and sling an arm over his back.

Drunk, he seems more willing to touch Porthos than he had been sober. Porthos frowns, though, because Athos is tipsy, but he isn’t very drunk. Aramis hisses at Athos, giving Porthos a worried look. He tries to pull Athos’s arm away.

“Don’t want wine,” Porthos says. “Should eat something. Have I eaten anything recently?”

“You’re talking,” Aramis says, stilling again, staring at Porthos.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “When did I last eat?”

“Yesterday, you had some broth. You threw it back up, though. Before that… the day before, a little fruit. Before that the pain wasn’t so bad, but you didn’t really eat much,” Aramis says.

“Better eat something, then. Some broth maybe?” Porthos says.

“Bread?” Aramis offers.

“It makes you ill if you eat it after having nothing for a while,” Porthos says. “Fruit is better.”

“Broth and fruit,” Aramis says, smiling. “Serge will be very happy.”

“I’ll go,” Athos says.

“Do not tell him Porthos wants wine,” Aramis says severely.

Athos looks guilty, and Porthos laughs, wondering how often Athos has been using that ruse recently. The laughter makes his head hurt, though, and stretches the skin around his injured eye. He lies back down on his side and closes his good eye, suddenly very tired.

“Here,” Aramis says softly, and Porthos feels a mug at his lips, water. He sips obediently. “I’ve had a right old time trying to get you to drink, and keep it down.”

“Thank you,” Porthos says. “I can tell I’ve been drinking. It’s worse when I haven’t been drinking.”

“What’s worse?” Aramis asks.

“Hmm?”

“Well you aren’t talking about your head, that’s not a thing that happens regularly and it sounds like…”

“Oh. Just my stomach,” Porthos says.

“You have been sick a lot,” Aramis says. “A lot. I thought it was just the headache, though.”

“Mm. Probably,” Porthos says.

The talking is too much, Porthos decides, and stops. Aramis asks a few more questions, but Porthos doesn’t tell him. He’s not sure he can tell, isn’t sure he has the words for the absolute misery of not eating for days and then having bread, having his stomach hurt so much he thinks he might die. Of not eating and having only bread or bad meat, of not eating and having rotten fruit, or raw turnip. Of having no food or bad food and his stomach. His stomach hurting, aching, empty, cramping. What memory or moment is he meant to relate? It was a while before he even realised anything was wrong with his stomach. In the army, lots had been hungry often. Hunger was usual. In the musketeers men had grown up with plenty, though, and Serge had made sure Porthos also had plenty. Serge had stopped Porthos from only eating half, keeping half for later. Had stopped Porthos eating rotten fruit and bad meats. Had made sure Porthos had enough, knew he’d always have more.

“Serge says you are to eat all the broth, and he’s cooked some apples for you with honey and he says to eat plenty of it, and he’s also sent some apricots but those he doesn’t mind if you eat or not,” Athos says, returning.

Porthos sits up. Aramis tries to help, but Porthos brushes him away. He doesn’t need help, doesn’t want help. He lets Athos and Aramis stay, though, sitting with him while he tries the broth. He takes his time. He learnt that the hard way, too. He goes slowly, one little bite at a time, letting his stomach get used to it before trying more. Aramis and Athos watch him, which is disconcerting. Porthos puts his spoon down and glares until they look away. They keep sending him surreptitious looks, but they start a quiet conversation about horses. Neither are paying much attention, but they’re not staring at Porthos which is better. He considers leaving the apple, but Serge has always been fairly good at guessing how much Porthos’s stomach will stand after not eating for a while. It’s only been a short while this time, too. He eats half the apple. His eye hurts, though, and he’s tired, and he gives up after that letting his spoon fall and his head rest back.

“He didn’t pass out, did he?” Athos says.

“No,” Porthos says.

“Just checking,” Athos says, coming to take the bowl away. He pauses and touches Porthos’s shoulder.

“Stay sober, eh?” Porthos says, opening his eye again and looking up at Athos. “Could use your help.”

It’s not true, not really. He’ll be fine on his own, and if he does need help, he has a feeling Aramis is going to be incredibly attentive. But Athos likes being needed. Porthos has noticed that, and he’s been waiting for a moment to use that particular piece of information. He’s curious, anyway, to see what kind of help Athos offers. First, Athos sets aside the bowl of fruit and helps Porthos lie down. He’s surprisingly strong for someone small and a little drunk. His hands find unhurt places and lift and nudge and push, manipulating until Porthos is lying on his side. Then Athos gives his shoulder a satisfied pat and he goes to sit at the table and eat the apple, and one of the apricots. Porthos laughs, carefully, softly. Athos gives him a small, amused smile. Athos rarely smiles. Porthos breathes deeply and keeps his eye open until Athos looks away, watching the smile widen a moment then fade. Only then does Porthos close his eye.

~

Not drinking isn’t too hard. The date has passed, and Athos was drinking partly from habit, partly to avoid thinking about Porthos, sweating and desperately pained, throwing up anything they could get him to take. Aramis had stayed with him, attentive and silent and tender, achingly tender. Athos hadn’t been able to bear it, though. He went and got wine from Serge and drank until he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone how much he cared for the two men shut in Aramis’s rooms. Now, though, Porthos is awake and talking, and sitting up. He’s slow and quiet, sleeps too much, and is in pain, but it’s bearable. So Athos doesn’t drink too much. He drinks, he can’t stop completely, but he stays on the right side of sober.

Sober means he has to report for duty, and he spends the day guarding a minister as he does absolutely nothing of any interest. Except, that it, shut himself away with one of the palace servants for long period of time in which Athos pretends deafness. The servant is old enough to make his own choices, so Athos ignores it. When he gets back to the garrison, Captain Rouzee is sat in the courtyard with Gaillard and Basot, looking much more healthy than he had a few days ago. He raises a hand in greeting and Athos goes over.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you and Aramis, for lending Porthos to my rescue mission,” Rouzee says.

Basot and Gaillard laugh. Athos considers the joke, decides it isn’t funny, and nods.

“We won’t, next time,” Athos says, turning away.

“Hey, Athos!” Rouzee says, laughing too. “Come on.”

“He isn’t ours,” Athos says, not turning back but stopping walking. “He doesn’t belong to anyone but himself. He isn’t heroic and he didn’t save your life. He assessed the situation and his strength, and made a decision. He is clever and generous, not our belonging, and not some rash hero type.”

“I hadn’t meant to make light of it,” Rouzee says, more seriously. “Nor to imply ownership. I meant only that I’m sorry he got hurt, really.”

Athos nods, and goes on his way. Aramis isn’t in his rooms, and neither is Porthos, so Athos checks Porthos’s, but they’re not there, either. He looks around, confused, and heads for his own rooms. Which is where he finds them. Aramis is sprawled on his bed, hands behind his head, while Porthos sits at the table. Athos has just the one room, because it’s the one furthest from everyone else, the one in the most defensible position, the one without a window to fall out of or for someone to come in at.

“What are you doing?” Athos asks, hanging up his cloak and hat.

“No idea,” Aramis says, smiling. “Porthos is doing something.”

Athos looks, but Porthos seems to just be sitting, eyes shut, hugging himself. Athos looks back at Aramis, eyebrows raised.

“I think he fell asleep,” Aramis says.

Athos touches Porthos’s shoulder, and Porthos jerks awake, eyes opening. He gasps, wincing in pain, and then presses a hand to his chest.

“Startled me,” Porthos says. “Where you been?”

“On duty,” Athos says. “I’m sober.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “I wondered, is all.”

“On duty,” Athos says again.

“We’ve been sat here for an hour for that?” Aramis says. “Couldn’t you have just asked? I could have told you that! I knew that!”

Porthos sighs, and lists sideways into Athos, resting his head against Athos’s body. Why he can’t ask Aramis for this, Athos doesn’t know. Porthos said he might need help, though, and this seems to Athos to be help. He wraps his arms around Porthos’s shoulders and waits. Aramis tuts, and makes a huffy sound. Athos gestures for him to vacate the bed and, when Porthos shifts away, they help him over to it to lie down. He falls back asleep, and they sit at the table.

“He wanted you to hug him,” Athos says, mildly, pouring himself a mug of wine under Aramis’s uncertain scrutiny.

“Why will he hug you, and not me?” Aramis says. “He seems less uncertain of you.”

“He cares less,” Athos says, easily. He doesn’t mind.

“That isn’t true. We’re both his friends. He cares very deeply for his friends.”

“Yes, but he cares less about whether I mind,” Athos says. Then he thinks of the servant and the minister. “Or perhaps he wants something else from you.”

“No he- wait. That was said with inflection,” Aramis says, narrowing his eyes. Athos keeps his face straight and meets his gaze innocently. “Athos! Do you mean to tell me… do you mean to imply that… he wants to…” Aramis lowers his voice and leans closer. “He wants to have sexual relations with me?!”

“Why not?” Athos shrugs. “You’re handsome enough, in your own way.”

Aramis looks scandalised, and Athos laughs, finishing his wine and pouring another. Just this one more, then he’ll go in search of food. Aramis is looking at Porthos, a contemplative set to his face, when Athos looks back at him. Athos is less surprised than he’d have expected to be. Aramis has two benefactors, currently, as far as Athos knows, both women, but that doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. He gets up and goes to get enough food for both of them, and something gentle on the stomach for Porthos if he should wake.

~

It’s warm, and bright, and Athos is on duty somewhere or off on a mission somewhere, leaving Aramis to care for Porthos. Treville hasn’t asked Aramis to come back yet, and Aramis is convinced that Athos has a hand in that. He has a feeling Athos went up there drunk, the day after Porthos was injured, and demanded Aramis be allowed leave. Porthos agrees with this, and finds it very funny to think about Athos bullying the captain. Little drunk Athos with his smart words and quick sword. Porthos, right now, is dizzy and a bit sixk but not in too much pain. He’s lying curled, head in Aramis’s lap, Aramis’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“Why do you have so much trouble asking for this, allowing this?” Aramis asks softly, setting his bible aside.

Porthos shuts his good eye, and Aramis thinks he’s pretending to sleep to get out of answering. He’s done that a time or two. Especially about food. Aramis can guess a few of the answers to that, but not to this. He still doesn’t know that much about Porthos, not really. He knows he was a soldier, and guesses that he grew up poor. He knows about how Porthos is now, generous and belligerent, restless and energetic, enthusiastic. He doesn’t know facts, though. Before, he’d have thought Porthos was just a little stand offish, not wanting tenderness at all. Now, though, Aramis is sure that Porthos does want that. Wants this, this closeness and quiet. Aramis strokes his cheek, rests his fingers carefully over the bandage at his eye, and lets him pretend.

“Safety,” Porthos says.

“Huh?” Aramis says, surprised.

“It’s about safety. And control, I suppose. Protects me, doesn’t it? Get by on my own, without needing anything,” Porthos says.

“You ask Athos,” Aramis says.

“No I don’t, he offered,” Porthos says.

Aramis runs back through the times he’s seen Porthos embracing Athos, or being fussed over by him. It’s true. The offers were subtle and possibly even Athos hadn’t noticed himself doing it, but it was there. A gesture, or opening of his body language, a comment. Or crawling into bed drunk, that first time. That too. Aramis nods.

“Would it be easier if I were to offer?” Aramis asks.

“Dunno. Gotta trust you a lot, Aramis,” Porthos says, very quietly. “Already trust you, of course. It’s an awful lot of trust to give you that bit of me, though.”

“You give it to Athos,” Aramis says, a little stung.

“No. He gives me his vulnerability, I haven’t given him anything,” Porthos says. “If I give you permission for this, for what you want, it’s like… I’ve been looking after myself for a really long time. I’ve been protecting myself, and I’ve been protecting myself from people who I should’ve been able to trust, and I’ve learnt not to trust. It’s a lot to unlearn.”

“Alright,” Aramis says. “This is good, though. Is it alright?”

“Yes,” Porthos says. “This is alright. But not… not always.”

Aramis nods, and takes his hand away. Porthos sighs, and turns his head a little, a little more into Aramis’s lap and thigh. He has an arm around his middle, and Aramis has got to learn the little tells that mean the pain in his head is building so he knows that’s getting worse, too. Porthos is holding onto Aramis’s knee, to keep, apparently, the room from spinning. Aramis looks at his fingers, his dirty nails, the strength of his grip. It’s gentle too. Aramis’s breath catches suddenly, a little sharply. There is a lot about Porthos, like this, that’s very gentle. Porthos looks up, twisting so he can see Aramis.

“I’m fine,” Aramis whispers, smiling widely and touching Porthos’s cheek. “You trust me with quite enough, my friend. I am content.”

“Mm, okay, but I’m going to be sick,” Porthos mutters, trying to get up a bit.

Aramis wraps his arm under Porthos’s shoulder and helps him sit, reaching for the bowl. Porthos leans on Aramis’s shoulder, retches, and brings up his stomach contents. When he’s done he slumps against Aramis’s chest, head on his shoulder, hair a soft cloud against Aramis’s neck. Aramis holds him, and Porthos makes a choked sound. Aramis thinks he’s going to be sick again, but quickly realises he’s crying.

“Hey, hey,” Aramis says, worried.

“Sorry,” Porthos chokes out, shuddering. “You’re 'oldin’ me in your lap. Let m'go.”

Aramis does, but keeps his arm over Porthos’s shoulders without holding him there. Porthos shivers, makes a small noise, and pulls himself away. He looks at Aramis, face wet, eyes wide and scared. Aramis meets his gaze and waits. Porthos leans back carefully into Aramis’s chest and shoulder, shifting to get comfortable, and Aramis holds him close, holds him steady. He doesn’t weep, or sob, or wail. He goes still and quiet and limp. Aramis can feel his tears wetting his neck, though. He rocks Porthos, careful to be slow and not exacerbate his dizziness.

“My mother used to hold me like this,” Aramis whispers, tears stinging his own eyes at the thought of it.

“Mine died,” Porthos whispers.

Aramis rubs his back, avoiding the deep bruises on his shoulders. Porthos stays there like that for a long time, but afterwards he tucks himself away from Aramis. Aramis wraps him in a blanket and lets him be. The emotion of it is a little overwhelming, and he’s beginning to see an inkling of what Porthos means by it being a lot to trust Aramis with. Porthos is trusting him, though. A little at a time, at his own speed. Aramis smiles. Yes, he is content. Porthos already gives him quite enough. And if there is more, if there is more Porthos should want to give? Aramis will accept it and look after it and keep every little thing Porthos gives as safe as he possibly can.


End file.
